2012-12-04 Arkham is No Place for a Clown
Arkham Asylum, the home of the criminally insane in Gotham. Tonight, something is afoot. Something not quite right. An alert went out from the mental institution, directly to GCPD headquarters. Responding officers were met with confusion, as no one in the facility knew anything about an alert. The Warden and Head of Security denied issuing it themselves, though they instantly placed the building on lockdown and called for a headcount of prisoners and staff alike. All were accounted for. With events quickly getting... strange, Gotham's finest radioed back to the station, letting their superiors know. Because everything is just -wonderful- in the world tonight! Couldn't be better. Harley's back at Arkham to check up on some of her 'patients,' completely oblivious as everyone else that something isn't right in this facility. Because everything is as it should be. Really! Just send in the Batman, okay? She's likely to get crabby, otherwise. Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Reacting impulsively, Jim Gordon reaches out of bed and smacks the telephone off its receiver. A voice is heard quietly from the receiver. "Gordon! Gordon, pick up the damn phone!" Groggily, the Commissioner snatches the phone up and puts it against his ear. "What the hell is this, it's almost midnight!" A moment later, Gordon seems to have woken up very quickly. "What do you mean, nobody set the alarm? Someone had to have set the alarm." Another long pause, before the man sighs deeply and reaches for his spectacles. "Alright, get a Quick Response Team ready. I'll head that way and meet you there." Slamming the phone down, the Commissioner goes to his closet to grab the pair of pants and less-than-impressively ironed shirt that he keeps hung there just for moments like this. Hopefully it won't be a long night. An alert on Arkham Island is rarely a good thing, and depending on its population at any given time, it can rapidly evolve to being among the worst scenarios even in a town where the nights are full of worst cases. When the protocols light up, the GCPD is not the only faction that responds; even now, out in the bay, the Dark Knight pauses his other duties to turn his eye to Arkham. Almost fully submerged in the dark and placid waters, a matte gunmetal, near-black hull breaches the surface, exposing scanner arrays to feed reconaissance below, the sensor readings extrapolated with detailed satellite sweeps of the Island and bay surrounding her; not to mention Arkham Asylum in particular. A potentially urgent alert goes out over the Bat-network, as relayed by Oracle: |"Possible disturbance at Arkham Asylum; any nearby operatives surveil. Active convergence may be necessary, stand by."| As the Batman works his own angle, the crackling communication from the converging and curious GCPD sounds periodically over his own backdoors into Arkham Asylum's own security grid.. "Did you guys see South Park last night?" There's silence from the rather larger group, most of whom are wearing Arkham medical staff white shirts and slacks. A handful are in Arkham Asylum riot gear, looking distant and cooly alert. The guy in the middle, who is tied to a Hannibal-Lecter style upright gurney, looks back and forth. "I love South Park. Cartman, y'know? He's my guy. 'Hey, screw you guys. Srsly. I'm goin' home'," he says, with a pretty accurate Cartman impression. The guy on the board is, of course, Deadpool, and it looks like The System finally caught up with him. The Merc With the Mouth even has a cage mask on over his face, though it looks like someone just slapped an umpire mask on in lieu of proper restraints. He's still wearing his full mask, and red boots peek out from under the restraints wrapped aroudn him. At least he doesn't look armed, which is rare for him. "There she was, just a walkin' down the street, singin' dooo a diddy didy dum hmm hmm..." Deadpool starts bobbing his head and humming loudly as the elevator grinds to a halt on 4P, for seriously dangerous and deranged criminals. The group starts shuffling along, going down the hallway between rows of some of Gotham's most dangerous felons. Spotting Harley walking along, Deadpool raises his voice a bit. "SHE LOOKED GOOD, SHE LOOKED FIIIINE. EVERYWHERE YOU GO YOU FIND PRETTY WOMAAAAN, WALKING DOWN THE STREET!" Heh. Roy Orbison, eat your heart out. No one asked you for musical commentary. Huntress pauses at the edge of a rooftop, taking a step back and crouching down to listen to the alert before cursing faintly to herself and going back the way she came. It's the work of a few moments, and then a black Ducati is tearing across Gotham on its way toward the Asylum. It's going to take her at least fifteen minutes to get there, and hopefully the trip will have been for nothing. Because, really. The Asylum. That places gives her the serious heebeejeebies, and that's from just looking at it. She doesn't even want to think about having to go inside. Blegh. Gordon's Quick Response Team arrives at Arkham first, more firmly locking down the already locked down Asylum. All roads are blocked off, and they prepare their equipment while waiting for the Commissioner to arrive. Meanwhile, inside, the guards on 4P don't even seem to blink as Deadpool, Harley, and company arrive. They stand at the ready, though, armed and settled in riot gear as is policy for a lockdown. The Warden and Head of Security await the arrival of the Commissioner, while simultaneously running every check they can think of, however, only one thing is turned up. A joker card from a standard playing deck was found taped to the maximum security elevator leading to 4P, the ward that holds Gotham's most dangerous criminals. 'Leading' the entourage with the newest to join Arkham is Harley Quinn, no longer going by another persona so much as she's going by herself. Both halves of it. She's got the red and black checkerboard pattern going far enough to have one half of her hair dyed one color and one half dyed the other. She's dancing in front of the apparatus that Deadpool is getting wheeled in on, even turning around to continue along backwards while singing along with the guy. It's not that easy to do as she's also trying to apply jet black lipstick to herself. "Dooo a diddy diddy dum ditty--damnit!" She furiously scrubs a goofed portion off of her face and touches it back up, ending with an air-kiss and an exaggerated "Mwah" toward the mercenary. She also draws an elaborate curly villain moustache on the front of Deadpool's mask for good measure. "We've got a big night ahead of us, sweetums! -Love- your costume by the way, ya got the colors just right! Now be sure ya -don't- hit the man with the green hair, 'else Imma hafta shank your bitch ass, mh'kay? Now you be a good boy and get acquainted with your new digs, Momma's gotta step off-camera long enough for the masked morons to make their grand entrance. We'll play soon, promise!" That said, Harley skips along down the sparsely lit hallway to find somewhere to hole up, humming a merry little tune to herself as she goes. "Haaah. Doo a ditty damnit." Deadpool sniggers to himself, then looks a bit taken aback as his facemask is removed and Harley pencils a moustache on his red mask. "Hey, a moustache! Nyaah! Nyaah! I'll get you, Mouse and Squirrel! Nyaah!" He eyeballs Harley as she cartwheels off, then looks at the guys escorting him. "So, like, I guess get your game faces on. Bubble Psycho Pop isn't exactly subtle, and I am /king/ of subtle." Deadpool eases back in his gurney, still clad all in red and with a curly moustache now on his red mask. Subtle. And he's singing Christmas carols. Kind of. "Oh time bomb, oh time bomb, how we all must love thee. Oh time bomb, oh time booomb, I love you and Poison Iiiivy. She's so hot, but you're so loud, for either one, I'd hit the grooound... oh Time Bomb, oh time bomb, you're both so looovely." Waitaminute, that was the other guy. Dudley do Wright. Well, screw those Canadians anway. It's not like it's a real country, anyway. Wait. Did Rocky and Bullwinkle have a villain? No, he was Russian. Moosh and Sqvirrel. Heh. You know who else is Russian? Black Widow. Man, she's hot. I'd totally cast Rhona Mitra in that role. Not some lame sauce actress who's only got two talents in front of her and can't even say 'Bozhe moi' correctly. Oye vey. "Barbara, I've gotta go in to work, okay? Be good and don't stay up too late!" "Okay, dad!" is a muted response from behind a closed bedroom door. If only Gordon knew what his daughter was doing. It certainly wasn't chatting with cute boys on SpaceBook. Gordon's car goes speeding down the nearly deserted roads, with a magnetic siren attached to the roof. His police band radio joins the siren's noise, squawking confused reports behind the growl of an engine. Gordon knows the streets well, taking turns and routes to hit the least amount of traffic resistance. His phone lights up with an incoming message, and he spares a moment to glance at it before snatching it off the seat. His attention is split between driving and the video message that is displayed, before a crease in his brow forms. "Oh, no, not tonight," he remarks, and begins sending a response. DENIED: MESSAGE FAILED "Damn!" Gordon throws the phone to the seat and quickly swerves to avoid rear ending a car parked in the middle of the road at a green light. His eyes quickly look inside to see two teenagers in full snog. "For the love of..." Snatching the radio, he thumbs it to life. "Officer needed at 37th and Walnut, obstruction of traffic, green sedan black trim, license Brian Charlie Kevin One Seven Eight Niner." "Ten Four." "Lieutenant Bishop, this is Gordon. Send in a team to start identifying -all- of Arkham's prison guards. Feed the ID numbers to MCU Tactical, detain any discrepancies, over." "Ten Four, Gordon," replies one of the QRT Lieutenants on the scene. "Hank! Marisa, Dennis, Jethro, you're with me!" Also, someone's getting a bit happy with their line returns. 'Lookit me, I'm Jim Gordon, mreh mreh mreh I like to use too much dialogue and exposition, mreh mreh mreh.' With the strange camera glitch he picks up on 4P coupled with the everpresent Joker card and the guard-who-is-not-a-guard, there's only so many conclusions the Dark Knight can draw. A follow up is transmitted to Gordon, just emphasizing that fallen playing card. When dealing with the Clown Prince of Crime, it pays to be prepared-- extra prepared. |"Suspected Joker escape in progress."| Only Robin is cut out of that piece of the puzzle-- he's responding elsewhere with Batgirl, and that's just as well by the Bat, tonight. |"Tune into GCPD frequencies and support lockdown."| Can't let the Clown slip the noose.. who knows how many people will pay the price? Rising from black leather chair and turning away from the high-tech readouts of the barely visible Batboat, the Dark Knight climbs to a hatch above water and out onto the hull, sealing it behind him.. before a grapnel line carries him careening towards the towering, archaic Asylum. He'll enter through sluice gates he rigged some time ago, along a dangerous, drowning-prone obstacle course into the facility's maintenance accessways. Suspected what? Huntress starts thinking all of the most vile curses she can think of in English, Italian, AND Latin, revving her motorcycle into the next gear up and going that much more over the speed limit. She swerves around the car that Gordon nearly rear-ended and debates taking out one of the their tires out of sheer spite, but they're gone from her mirrors too quickly for her to act on that impulse. Nearing the road that leads up to the Asylum, the Ducati slows and pulls off to hide in a stand of trees a few dozen yards short of the fenceline. Huntress squints slightly as she look toward the hideous old building, and decides maybe it's time to tell the Bat that she's in the area. "I'm just outside of the front gates to Arkham," she says quietly, knowing the comm unit will pick up her voice easily. "Waiting further instructions." No omniscient dialogue allowed through poses! Only I may do that, through the magic of yellow text! Gordon's order reaches his team in Arkham, and they set about following them to the letter. Gotham police meet Arkham guards, and the former start to check the latter. ID's are run, but no one seems to be so much as out of position. As the elevator to 4P is reached, they all look to each other with a hint of nervousness. The Joker. Someone you do not want to mess with, that's for damn sure, but they head on down the elevator anyway. As they arrive, the doors slide open to reveal exactly what is expected. Guards in full riot gear making sure the prisoner's are in place. Oh, and Deadpool on board, but he's facing the opposite direction. They start heading down the line, and as they ask for the first guard's ID, he grunts. "My what? Whachu' need that fer?" Of course, at about that point, one of the cops takes a gunbutt to the head from one of the other riot guards, and weapons are pointed at them. "Hand in the air, Pigs. Lar, get their radios, and throw 'em in a cell. Remember ta' dress 'em up nice like the boss said." The maintenance accessways beneath Arkham run a couple feet beneath the lowest floor, which also happens to be 4P, and it also happens to have a grate that leads right up to the end of the hall, plus, an easy way into the elevator shaft. Oooh, this is sooo ex-citiiing!- Harley can't tip her hand just yet, leave the uniformed boys to play their number and get everything sorted out. Mustn't be too hasty, everything in its time! ..She wants something else to draw on, now. With that black stick of makeup she starts to draw upon the reinforced glass window to one of the other cells, making quick work in outlining stick figures attackine one another with what might be clubs, or knives, or limbs stolen off of their companions. It's hard to tell, they're all sticks. "Place is so -gloomy,- how do they expect anyone but J-Man to enjoy himself down here? If he didn't smile -no- one would!" What's taking them so long? Darnit, she wants to get this show on the road! Her little mercenary friend sounds like he's running out of things to say--okay, maybe not so much where he's concerned. Harley suddenly spins about and folds her arms tightly over her chest, *whump*ing back against the wall with a frown. "I'm bored now." "You're bored?" Deadpool shakes his head in disbelief at Harley, wriggling against his restrains experimentally. "They're already beating the hell out of each other, and I'm still tied to a board. A /board/. This is /not fun/. I am /not having fun/. I'm having to read all this tired exposition and dialogue about conveniently located crawlspaces and certain people's need for needlessly obstructed waterway access points." "I mean, what's up with that? If I wanted to break into Arkham, I wouldn't have some stupid zipline or grapnel. I'd sneak in with Catering. You get a nice snack, you ride in the back of a van, you have clean outfits to wear. But I mean, whatever, if I was, say, some borderline psychotic vigilante, I guess a water-filled Price of Persia obstacle marathon would be about right." What Deadpool is talking about is anyone's guess. None of it seems to make any sense or seem remotely relevant. He peers around the cages, the 'guards' still prepping their gear as the prisoners start getting excited about the possibility of a prison riot. "Did you write your Christmas list for Santa?" he demands of Harley. "I'm going to the mall tomorrow to sit on Santa's lap. I want a new FS-2000, some Hot Wheels, a subscription to Playboy Online, and a new netbook, and a shiny red ball, and some high-pressure hollowpoint ammunition, and..." Deadpool kind of gets himself on a roll. He's got a pretty substantial Christmas list, including someone's mom, a bevy of weaponry, and something about a new Monopoly set. When the second image comes in to Gordon's phone, it's more than enough proof that the Batman will be involved tonight. This, combined with the APB he'd put out under pressure by the Mayor to arrest -every- masked vigilante, could create a problem. Not to mention, playing cards. Wonderful! With his phone strangely blocked from replying to the incoming messages, Gordon only has one way of warning his secret partner in crime-fighting of the new danger posed to him - his police radio. "All units, this is Gordon. Be advised, APB 'Mask Hunt' is to be disregarded with the exception of any attempted escapees from Arkham. Keeping Arkham on lockdown is our -priority-, not arresting any would-be vigilantes here to help. Unit leads, confirm." A slew of /Copy/'s and /Ten-Four/'s come in, many of them urgent, but most of them hesitant. "I sure hope you're listening, buddy," Gordon murmurs to himself, before whipping the car around a corner and bringing the bridges to Arkham Island into view. With telemetry from the boat's scanner suite and Oracle's skilled routing-- even (perhaps especially) through Arkham's security systems-- the Dark Knight can effectively listen in, level to level. He climbs up into an elevator shaft, rather than taking the car itself, dodging around the ill-fated team's car as it stops high overhead at 4P. The nigh-silent, precision leaps it takes to climb the rest of the way whilst avoiding the returned car gives Batman plenty of time to listen in on the newborn hostage situation. A voice that sounds like every stern drill sergeant these SWAT boys have ever seen or heard about cuts over the police band in a stern, commanding voice, |"Police bands compromised. Maintain radio silence, exercise hand signals and confirm weapons safety protocols before advancing on unknown units. Repeat, hostile units flying false flag, Arkham security compromised, priority is perimeter security and readiness."| It's safe to say the Caped Crusader is listening, Jim. There's a beat, and the voice becomes Batman's, back over the Bat-network rather than the GCPD's compromised frequencies. |"They're dressing guards like inmates. It's hard to say how far the infiltration goes."| Needless to say, this situation just got upgraded. The Dark Knight grunts as he flips upwards to perch behind the elevator doors, using thermal imaging to pause a moment until the other guards turn their back.. .. and an ideal opportunity presents itself to slide said doors open, and yank the nearest 'guard' or two into the elevator shaft to be hastily inverted and gagged. |"Four P. Take the elevator."| It likely sounds completely dry on the Huntress' end; the sarcasm is decidedly localized as the Dark Knight seeks out more Joker-loyal prey with a profound frown on his face. Huntress hears Batman's explanation of what's going on and that's enough to start with. She bypasses the fenceline then gets out one of the gadgets Oracle sent to her to replace her own lost equipment, really hoping this grappling hook thing works enough like her own that she won't... HO CRAP! The device latches onto a darkened section of the asylum building wall and pulls her across at a MUCH faster pace than she's accustomed to. A few moments pass and she's slipping past the guards and police guarding the exits, slipping to the already waiting elevator. Where does the Bat GET those wonderful toys? She's not going to question at the moment, she's just going to be really glad that the guards currently seem to be more concerned with keeping people in rather than keeping them out. And if they happen to be /letting/ her past? Well, she just thinks she's successfully being that sneaky. |"HahahaHAHahAHaHAHAHahAHAAA! Uh oh, sounds like /someone/ figured out our little trick. Well at least one of you mindless baboons pays attention... Unless this baboon also plays dress-up. Like me! HeheHEHeheHEhe! Look alive, boys, you've got company!"| The distinctly nasal voice sounds over the GCPD radios followed by insane cackling. The 'riot guards' break into broad grins, tossing their helmets to the side, revealing several clown tattooed, and masked, individuals, and three very large, very imposing looking bruisers, well known to the Bat family as lieutenants in Joker's gang, referred to only by the names, Moe, Lar, and Cur. As one, they ready their weapons and start looking around for the Bat, calling out taunts and grunts as they search for their intruder. Harley tap-taps a bicep with the tip of a finger while staring at the opposite wall. Waiting. -Listening.- She knows the sounds of this place like the back of her hand. ..Right. "Ah! It sounds like the party's about to start. Suppose I better letcha go, huh," she positively beams while skipping her way right back to where Deadpool is left situated. "Oooh Christmas treee, oooh Christmas treee," she starts to sing while curling her fingers around two of the bars coming off of the back of Deadpool's gurney. "Youuur ornameeents--" A subtle, scraping sound fills the air as the honed, gleaming metal of a matched pair of katanas are exposed, coming free with a musical *Ting!* "--Aaare his-toryyy." With a vicious (and not entirely well-trained) motion she dices Deadpool free of his restraints (and maybe some of his costume as well,) then hands the blades back to the merc by passing them over the tops of his shoulders. "Here ya go. Have fun! Make like they're the turkey on Thanksgivin' and remember what you're thankful for." "Really is neat how much ya can hide on one of these," she cheerfully explains to no one while pulling a big ol' crowbar off of the gurney next, followed a moment later with a Micro Uzi. In a flash she's just another clowned up face in a crowd, albeit still the only woman of the crew. "Gonna -cap- me some guys!" *Swish*. *Click*. *Snap-pop*. *Load*. *Chk-chak*. Deadpool makes all these sounds with his mouth as he quickly arms himself, reaching under the gurney for the storage box bolted to the frame. It's funny because he makes the gun sound when he sheathes his katanas and goes 'swish' when he loads his guns. Because it's hilarious, that's why. The other mercs look askance at him, sidelong- until he stands up, and he's now Deadpool, Armed and Dangerous ™. Mouth or not- crazy or not- The mercenary is carrying enough ordnance to outfit a military squad. He's a walking weapon, insane to boot, and even the hard-faced mercenaries- all armed as well- edge away from him a bit. He sports a Kel-Tec RFB, a pair of MP-9s with stubby suppressors, a grenade launcher, two bandoliers of grenades, a pair of oversized 1911s with double-stacked extended magazines, and a stupid amount of knives. Oh, and his katanas, which are super sexy and awesome looking. That's all for Harley's benefit. Gun pr0n. "Thanks, Dollface," Deadpool drawls to Harley, tightening down the DeadBelt and totally rocking the 'battle damage' look. "So, like, would it be inappropriate to ask Batman for his autograph when I kick his ass? Or should I just, like, whoop on him for a bit, then smash his BatFace into a DeadPoster?" Police bands compromised! "Son of a..." Gordon throws the radio to the seat in frustration. "Of all the..." He goes quiet while steering past one of the roadblocks on the Arkham bridge, then reaches to snatch up his cell phone. Oh good, it can still make calls! Dispatch comes in on speed dial. "This is Gordon. Police bands are compromised, but we need to escalate this to code orange. I need another QRT unit out here, not to mention air cover." A pause. "Use your damned cell phone, or run down to the bullpen, I don't care! Just do it!" He'll have to apologize to the poor dispatcher later. With a screech of tires, Gordon's car finally arrives on the scene. Stepping out, complete with a loosely drawn tie, trench coat and hat, he's as iconic as he ever was, while inspecting the scene. Approaching one of the QRT armored vans, a frown is drawn across his face. "Where's Lieutenant Bishop?" His answer comes with an all too familiar and manic voice over their radios. "Nevermind," he answers. "Maintain your perimeter here until we get second unit and air cover, then close in as close as you can. Nothing gets out of Arkham un-detained. No guards, no doctors, -no goddamn prisoners-, understood?" They flutter and smack at every window on 4P, its eaves and awnings, a cloud looking for a way in-- any way in-- every way in. There's a pitched screeching that's only the most partially audible to human ears-- but it's enough. Particularly since it would only intensify, the bat-clouds disoriented and chaotic, violent should the Joker's boys start discharging firearms prematurely; like they always, always do. Especially when moments are all it takes for the halls of 4P to fill with a swirling tumult of night-winged predators, the disorienting cloud utilized as cover-- and distraction-- as the Batman slips back onto the floor, coming around the corner to abruptly intercept Cur. One minute there's swirling black bats, the next.. well, in this case, it's not hard to see how the Bat might come out of nowhere, spikes of one gauntlet leading to hopelessly deform the burly bruiser's battle-rifle chamber, which would ruin the feed and inspire the weapon to jam-- if not misfire, when next it tries to feed. Swiftly, in that same lunge, the Dark Knight would invert the lieutenant's own gunstock into his face, seeking to put him out by way of a facecrunching impact to the man's broad nose, before he even knows what hit them. The twin, weighted blades that fly down the corridor for Moe's gun barrel and the shoulder of his favored arm? They're less organic, but also shaped like bats, and even do in fact whistle whilst flying through the air. Of course, his offensive is likely to be cut rather short as Harley and -Deadpool- arm up just down the hall... This must be what a rat in a box about to be released into one of those mazes with sections of electrified floor feels like. Readying her crossbow with her least damaging but fastest bolts, Huntress crouches to one side of the elevator doors fully expecting someone to open fire the moment the doors open. Hopefully they'll be aiming above her head, and from here she might be able to take out a kneecap or two before having to get up in someone's face. 4P, this is it. *DING* |"Ouch! That's. Got. To. /Hurt/. Don't worry, Cur, Joker provides health insurance for all his men... What? ... We don't? ... Oh. Well. Then suck it up and get back in the fight you overpaid ape! HAHahaHAHHAHahAHAha!"| The commentary continues over the police radios, with information only available from someone watching the fight. |"Oh! Oh! Good choice, Harls! Remember, when using the crowbar, start with the backhand! The last boy blunder seemed to /really/ respond to it. HehehEHeHEhEHeHEHehEHeHehe!"| Remember, kids! Always let the mooks go in before the named baddies. Like all of those clown-faced goons that are now swarming 4P, with the elevator door opening the first wave rushes up to it and, predictably, makes with the shootie-shootie. Bats! -Everywhere!- "GAH it's in my hair it's in my hair!" Harley yelps while dancing in place, the machine pistol rattling off a string of lead as she sweeps the weapon up over her head to try and dislodge the winged rat. One of the 9mm slugs pegs a clowned-up baddie and drops him like a sack of potatoes mid-sprint to the elevator, but the bat is gone! So, that's cool. "That was a smooth one, Harls," she monotones to herself before rolling her shoulders with a cheery "Eh! C'mon, Mister Crowbie. Let's go make some introductions!" The elevator turns into a momentary lightshow as airborne shots spark and ricochet off of the reinforced metal. Any part of any Bat, or cop-sort, that shows itself is going to be in for one heck of a surprise. These guys, despite their outrageous cosmetic costumes, aren't completely stupid. They don't all crowd the hall leading up to the elevator, many more of then fanning out and covering other routes. Keeping themselves out of the line of friendly fire. "Gonna clip yer wings, little birdie!" "They're -Bats,- you moron. Bats aint birds!" Of course, there's always a handful of bargain bin goons in every criminal outfit. Contrary to /Harley's/ crack team, Deadpool's group is all calm professional, with set faces and hard eyes. Clint Eastwood mercs, if you like. Deadpool's the only who flails when the bats attack, but his flailing involves katanas, and more than a few pieces of bat left on the hallway behind him. "Man, I love working with professionals," Deadpool comments to no one. One of Harley's spare goons gets in his way, and he casually backhands the guy into the wall, also removing an arm in the process. His team apreads out and settles into place behind containers and walls, thoroughly covering the entrances and exits with automatic weapons. *Ding!* "Fourth floor, ladies department, shoes and accessories to the rear of the store, children and ladies disembark first please-!" Deadpool pops the spoon on the greande during his pitch with a distinctive *ping* and the spoon goes flying. He hurls a flash grenade down the hallway towards Huntress' temporary defilade, the disabling explosive device skittering and bouncing the last fifteen feet or so and neatly riging into the small room like a horseshoe on a pole. He covers one ear and faces away for a brief moment as the flashbang goes off with a loud BAM, followed by a rippling series of secondary explosions. "So, like, not being all one to read too much into motifs or anything, but I think there's a Batman running around. I mean, wild bats, Batman, seems like a 'thing'," he also observes. He lifts his chin and looks out the window. "Hey, there's a cop out there! ...why, there'sh a whole messha copsh down thar!" he declares. "Team four," he says, grabbing a few of the mercs. "Shoot out those spotlights and lay down some ground'n'pound. Team one and three, cover your exits. Five, you're my support. Team two, you're on roving patrol- maneuver and engage." Possibly, the most coherent thing Deadpool's said all day. He keeps one auto pistol trained on the elevator, waiting for whomever is in there to make his day. The QR-Team Captain finds Gordon amongst the many armored cops now encircling Arkham in strategic positions. "Gordon! Something's going on in there. It's either Lieutenant Bishop's team, or one of those damned masks. Maybe even the Batman." He jerks a thumb toward the Asylum. "We need to move in, now, take that madman out and lock down the target." "No!" Gordon shakes his head. "What do you think is going on here? He's trying to lure us in there, using our own radios." Gordon looks toward the Asylum, where the sounds of hooting prisoners have begun to carry on the wind, but they are just a preface to the loud 'pop' of a flash grenade. "Well. In that case." He looks over his shoulder, spotting a trio of helicopters moving in from the mainland, along with a smattering of lights atop QRT vans and squad cars drawing near to the bridge's other end. "Split your teams, Captain. One stays on the perimeter, one goes in. Clear out those guards, we don't know which ones are compromised." The Captain nods his head and starts carrying out Gordon's orders, but in short order, there are bullets flying all around them. Some of the cops dive for cover, while others go running for the entrance to Arkham in an attempt to carry out the Commissioner's orders. Gordon himself, of course, gets caught up in the mess of SWAT-style citizen soldiers headed for Arkham. Figures. As a whole mess of Joker's cream-of-the-crop Ivy League hoodlums arrive in the elevator behind Batman.. and begin firing wildly at the swarming bats. It's a great deal less effective than Deadpool's vorpal blades, and it gives Batman plenty of time to bounce Lar's head off a wall as he comes in swinging wildly, and break several of Moe's ribs in the prelude to choking the large goon out. An instant in Hollywood slow motion is an eon in Batman-years, and even as he finishes his dalliance with the Joker's current capos, all that's left of the Dark Knight for the wildly spraying mob is a lightly tinking black pellet that resembles a ball-bearing as it bounces around the corner. Then it /erupts/ from tiny spouts on all three-hundred sixty degrees with an angry, adder's hiss, spraying noxious, greenish gas that irritates the eyes and nose (to say the least) for those brief moments before it paralyzes a grown man's muscle control. Popping a gas mask over his features, it's unpredictably back into the disabling green mist that the Dark Knight vanishes, seeking a different path around the suddenly very busy corridor. Huntress doesn't wait for the doors to open entirely before she fires three wooden bolts blindly out into the hallway. When the gunfire starts peppering the elevator, she realizes she's the fish the elevator has become a barrel. And the Mythbusters proved how BAD a place that is for any fish. Hastily standing, she uses her crossbow to shove the access panel in the elevator ceiling aside and jumps to climb up onto its roof. And not a moment too soon, as the concussion of the flashbang knocks her sideways and leaves her dazed for a couple of seconds. Damnit. Oracle didn't warn her about THAT. Ears ringing but her eyes spared thankfully, she hastily picks herself up and takes stock of her current predicament. Elevator roof. One small hatch leading down to the epicenter of the chaos. An access ladder set into the wall with zero clearance if the elevator chooses to move. A ventilation shaft big enough to reenact Die Hard with. Immediately dismissing that last thought with a faint scoff, she does a few quick mental calculations as she pulls one of the sticky bomb things she got in the box of supplies from Oracle. "I hope you can hear me, Batman, 'cause I can't hear myself," she says quickly and hopefully quietly. "I'm throwing a gas bomb into the hall." she takes a breath, studies the tiny projectile for a second, then aims to throw it down into the elevator and bounce it from there into the hallway. Fingers crossed that she didn't just accidentally throw some other, nastier little doodad. Wait... damnit. Poor planning. She doesn't have any kind of gas mask on her person. Die Hard reenactment it is. Yippy kai yay. Bastards. |"Batsy, look out! There's one behind you! -- Oh, wait... No, sorry, false alarm! ... Quick, duck! -- Oh, good, it missed. See, you should listen to me more oft -- Batsy get down!"| This time, of course, there just happens to be a thug aiming a massive swing for Batman's back from behind, a large sneer on his face. Meanwhile, in the security room... A broad grin stretches across Joker's pale face as he sits, feet resting on the control panel, watching the fight through the cameras. Several guards lay dead around him, a mechanical pencil jammed three inches into the skull of one of them. His eyes tick upwards to another screen, this one watching the outside and the police officers about to swarm, and he chuckles loudly, "Yeesh. I think we're full to bursting already... Time to call last rounds, I think, or else we'll risk breaking fire codes and be shut down!" Slwoly, his grin grows a touch more sinister as he reaches for an Arkham guard's radio, "And we wouldn't want that, would we." |"Attention,"| the muffled, almost comically gruff voice sounds over Arkham's own lines, |"several convicts are impersonating Gotham PD in an attempt to break out the Joker. That is all. Roger. Over and out. Ten four, good buddy. *Pksh*"| Yes, he did just make a static sound with his voice. Something silly this way comes... And something spooky from the other direction. Harley's crazy, but she's also -smart.- And quick. And good enough to give the cops by and large a run for their money. Up against a Bat, she's gonna need the upper hand. Like the element of surprise. Like a crowbar to the face. As Batman sends that gas pellet amongst the masses and takes another route, Harley's ready for him. From around a corner she swings that large, heavy, delicate instrument made out of forged steel right toward his face. It's dark, it comes out of nowhere, but let's face it. It's Harley and Mister Crowbie versus The Batman. It should distract the hell out of him, though! Meanwhile, the remaining JokerMen ™ are scattering to the winds, as there's a flashbang -and- two other grenade-type devices being employed! Shockwaves are nasty within enclosed spaces. Very disorienting. Plus that whole airborne agent and whatnot. One of the guys manages to kick Batman's little smoke pellet back to the elevator before he drops to the ground in a nasty coughing fit. The one dropped from Huntress is met with a lot of panicked yelling as they try to run away from it. At least one lingers long enough to shoot up at the air ducts, waiting just a little too long to get caught up in whatever that thrown charge holds. *plorp* Deadpool watches the grenade hitting the ground, head tilting like a dog hearing an odd sound, watching the bouncing betty 'bounce' all of zero times. He spreads his hands and looks over at the other mercs, who are all (wisely) behind cover, and then winces a bit as the explosive goes off clear at the far end of the hallway. Deadpool hits his vox mike. "Hey, um, Harley? Like... so like don't take this the wrong way, but I think you and I should trade spots. You've got Batman all up inz, and I'm looking at- ok, don't take this personally!" he calls down the hallway, "I'm looking at this B-lister with a crossbow, and... like, I really think she's more your fight. She just dropped a sticky grenade literally five feet in front of her." He absently fishes another grenade from his belt and with a thumb, pops the spoon and hurls it back down towards the elevator. This one is not a flashbang. It even says so on it- NOT A FLASHBANG in big yellow letters. Deadpool turns and walks away from the elevator, letting his guys monitor it from their positions down the hallway. He watches his team laying down automatic fire on the cops below- and the occasional grenade launcher arcing down from the windows to the grounds below as the SWAT team moves up. "Harley? Still with us, or did Batman beat your ass down already? Joker, I tell you, man, you need some better henchmen. Someone who /can/ go a few rounds with Batman. This is just contract work," he reminds the King Clown. The Joker clears his throat. "Clown Prince of Crime. To be precise." YOU'RE NOT MY SUPERVISOR. Inside Arkham's main entrance, Gordon is advancing alongside other Quick-Response-Team officers, all of whom are decked out in full riot gear. One of the officers tries to warm him that he shouldn't be in there unprotected, but he waves off the officer hastily. Without being able to use their radios, Gordon has no choice but to trust the second unit Captain to make smart choices and not risk too many officers by going in too quickly. The sound of heavy fire comes from above reveals to him that the choppers have arrived, and are trying to take out the shooters who are firing upon his officers on the ground. Gordon catches a semi-automatic rifle one of the cops has tossed to him, chambers a cartridge, and moves in alongside his officers while they start to clear out the guards, one by one. When the comically gruff voice sounds over the intercom, Gordon looks up at the ceiling with ire. "Son of a bitch," he whispers. "You two," he says, summoning the two closest QRT officers with a hand. "Control room." He points at the ceiling, and the two officers suddenly seem to get it. They move alongside Gordon as they move deeper into Arkham, headed toward the control room as quickly and stealthily as they might. The problem with the old 'wait and smack him from around a corner' gimmick is everyone has tried it once, already-- these nights, there's the advantage of thermal scanning in the cowl's optics. There's also the advantage of being Harley, and just crazy enough to try it anyway. Cold-cocking the Batman is a sadly popular pasttime, but he's in motion even in the instant she makes her abrupt, impulsive move-- granted, in motion this time translates to 'on the way to the ground'. He takes the impact more in the shoulder than the head, the swing clipping off his cowl with a dull, painful thud as he lurches with the momentum. It sends the Caped Crusader dropping to a three-point crouch rather than the floor, however, like he somehow planned it that way-- the next phase being to rather violently rotate upon landing, sending one reinforced boot in a mighty sweep for the Clown Princess' ankles, at which point the Dark Knight would equally abruptly rise in a brutal shoulder-tackle meant to bounce her off a wall before she can fully drop. Crowbars are something of a button, what can he say? Well: "Where's Joker, Quinn?" For the moment, Batman is just as happy to let Huntress delay the Merc with a Mouth and his Men-- as the entire facility goes straight to Hell. The world's Greatest Detective, ladies and gentlemen. 'Where're the drugs?!' 'Where's The Joker?' 'Where's the detonator!' Master interrogator. (Intentionally invoked for Deadpool's pleasure) NO THOUGHT BUBBLES. Only I may use thought bubbles. Huntress is thankfully already several feet away from the elevator shaft when Deadpool throws his 'NOT A FLASHBOMB' and she doesn't stop moving until she's hopefully past GinsuMan and his pack of cronies. She pauses at a vent letting her see down into the hallway. Whole pack of gun-toting cronies, all looking toward the elevator. Perfect. She pulls another little bomb thing and drops it through the vent and moves on before waiting to see the result. God, this is disgusting. Die Hard LIED. |"Wow! You sure know how to hit a woman, Batman, I'll give you that. On the other hand, how are you at defusing bombs? ... Ah, who am I kiddin', you're a genius! Which is why I decided to do things a little differently."| As the Joker's voice belts out from the police radios, still using them like his own personal communication channel, laughter can be heard rising above the chaos on 4P. Of course, the only reason it can be heard, is because it sounds like it's coming from a hundred throats all at once, and indeed, if anyone stopped to check, the prisoners still in the cells, are laughing. Or... The guards and police dressed as prisoners anyway. |"Holy Nitrous Oxide, Batman, that stuff's flammable! Cut the red one! No, the blue one! ... Wait, do vents have wires? Ah, who cares, I'll blow 'em up anyway. HahahHAHAhaHAhaHAhaHaHA!"| This may be a good time for the people who /don't/ care about Arkham guards and police officers to run. Meanwhile, at the security room! "Do wa diddy diddy dum diddy do..." Joker sings as he wanders down the hall, dressed in a police uniform complete with hat, large keyring spinning on his finger. He turns the corner just in time to see two cops and a Commish turn the corner down the hall and he freezes in his tracks, grin growing broader. "Stop! In the name of the law!" Before any of them can turn to face him, he draws an oversized revolver, firing off a few rounds at them from behind while giggling madly. BOOM! Deadpool ends up flat on his face, a few pieces of sizzling detritus sticking out of his back. "Ow. Son of a /biscuit/!" He gets to his feet, shaking out the cobwebs. Two men are down, and another is groaning semi-consciously. The fourt gives Deadpool a shaky thumbs up. "Hmm. That was... kind of clever." Deadpool looks from the elevator, slowly across the hallway, adding two and two together. His katana arcs up overhead and a section of ventilation shaft drops to the ground. "One thing that Bruce Willis never really understood was how air ducts work," he comments to no one in particular, fishing for a pair of grenades. "Namely, that they are transmitters of /pressure/ and /heat/. The hydrostatic shock theory proposes that internal trauma is caused by the percussion wave of a bullet hitting a person. So, hit soeone with a few thousand pounds of force directed down a sealed narrow pipe, they go squish. Use /napalm/, and the pressure differential createas a firestorm effect." He flicks a pair of grenades, counts to five, and hurls one down each direction Huntress might have taken. "Ok, so, let's see what that does," he tells the guys still with him. He checks his watch. "I guess we should fall back to Position Bravo. Cover and bound, leave lockdown protocols in effect." The team moves like a single unit, covering windows, doors and halls as they hike along, Deadpool loosely travelling at their center and reloading his equipment. "Batman, you still running around, or you just gonna beat on Harley all night?" he calls out. A few of Harley's thugs try to fall in with the merc team- they are rebuffed. Violently. "Yerk!" In another moment Harley and her crowbar are dropped to the floor, the latter clattering noisily. "You hurt Mister Crowbie..!" Yeah, because that's her biggest concern right now. "You Bats are all tha same, don't know how ta have a good time!" she declares with an all too amused grin. "Have ya tried the lobby? Oh--I know! Did anyone ever think ta check his cell? Betcha didn't! You were too busy playing with his buddies out in the hall. You should go do that sometime, amazin' what ya might find." Harley still has that machine pistol in her hand. At close range. With a very clear shot at Batman's crotch. Yet, she doesn't try to cash in on the opportunity. That's what crowbars are for! Besides, it's time for her to get going while the getting going is good. He wants the J-Man, not her. All she has to do is send him on his way so she can get back to being on hers. Assuming she can't send Batman chasing after The Joker's cell, she'll laugh at the black-clad man of the night. "If you wanted ta take over an asylum and harass people over the radio, where would you wind up, B-Man? You know enough about security, figure it out!" And please figure it out somewhere else, it's time for Harley to make a run for it! The goons..are all too busy laughing hysterically to put up much of a fight. One of Gordon's SWAT officers is struck by a bullet from Joker's oversized revolver. He's thrown to the ground, skidding across the floor, but the armor keeps it from being a fatal wound. Unfortunately, he's down for the count, and that leaves two. Gordon and his remaining compatriot spin about with rifles drawn, but it's the SWAT officer who begins unloading first. "Wait!" calls Gordon. "We need him alive." If there is a bomb, they might have better luck diffusing it if Batman is around to pressure the Joker into spilling its secrets. Rifle shouldered and aimed at the Clown Prince of Crime, Gordon prepares for a standoff that is bound to go bad at any moment. "Drop the gun and put your hands in the air!" he demands. The SWAT officer holds his fire and moves toward Gordon, slinging his rifle and moving to bring a bullet resistant shield to bear. If he's quick enough, he might protect the Commissioner from defiant firing from that clown-sized sidearm. The Batman doesn't chase Harley Quinn-- but neither does he quite let her leave. A deceptively dexterous glove drops into a hidden compartment on his utility belt and a customized release drops an extending bola into the Dark Knight's grasp. Where it stays for perhaps .42 seconds before whirling outwards at the fleeing Harley's ankles, silent save its whirling flight until and unless it finds its mark; at which point it crackles with electricity. A quick scan of the level and its ducts show the Caped Crusader no bomb-- per se. Joker always has liked things old fashioned; classic. It doesn't take long to confirm the entire ventilation system is filled with gas of the explosive variety; slightly longer for the Dark Knight to seal the vent closest to himself with adhesive gel. What good does /that/ do, one may ask. That question may be answered when the Dark Knight connects his grapnel gun to a portable power source on his belt, seals a hose over the last opening on said vent, and amps up the miniaturized but astoundingly efficient air compressor essential to the device. It's left running as he swiftly moves to seal vents at other connecting points, hardly trusting the Joker to be patient whilst his gadgetry clears the air. So to speak. The remaining mercenaries and thugs are largely evaded at this juncture, the Dark Knight quietly working right behind their backs one moment, and gone the next-- there's no time to evacuate, and so the Dark Knight is swift and silent, even if they /are/ chasing him. Huntress makes it to an intersection in the ventilation ducts and pauses there to try to stifle a giggle. Why the HELL is she laughing? This isn't funny! Well, it kind of is. But still! She looks at the three choices she has, then chooses to turn a corner and head for the light emanating from an opening in the vent system, having to stop more and more frequently to lay her head on her arms and just... laugh. She finally reaches a vent just in time for it to ... get sealed over by something? The hell? She reaches forward and pounds one hand weakly against the sealed vent. "Damnit," she gasps between bouts of laughter, "Let me out." It did happen, that one time. But that's a dangerous game to play with someone with the power of breaking the 4th wall. "Me?" comes Joker's reply, looking over his shoulder, to see if anyone else is behind him. Apparently satisfied no one is behind him, he looks back to the two officers, and lazily fires off a shot at the second SWAT officer in one smooth motion. Of course, there's the bullet resistant shield to deal with, so it's probably just a waste of a bullet. "I'm going to have to go with a no on that one, Commish, you se-" BOOM! Down in 4P, the two incendiary grenades tossed by Deadpool go off, setting what gas still remains inside the narrow ducts instantly on fire. It spreads with the ferocity of a rampaging beast, quickly travelling the length of multiple ducts. With Batman's pumps in effect, though, there are still several locations untouched by the fire... Unfortunately, the majority of the cells are not so lucky. Laughter fades to horrific screams of pain as the gas ignites their rooms. The makeshift gas bomb had no real punch, but the fireball that washes into the closed cells is enough to kill. Huntress' vent seems to be spared for the most part, though the fire is quickly spreading and threatens to engulf her if the Caped Crusader doesn't act fast. With the explosion blowing out most of the nearby vents, lashing tongues of flame at the ceiling, Joker takes the opportunity to fire off several more shots at his opponents before dashing down an adjoining hall that leads directly for the front doors. As he gets closer, he casually slips his gun away, tilts his hat downwards and proceeds to walk through the crowd of Arkham guards and police officers, stirred up by the confusion of the bomb. Once outside, he starts to whistle a soft, and happy tune to stifle the giggles bubbling out of him. A quick press of an 'unlock doors' button, and he finds his new ride. "Time to pick up my date." Hey wait..! That date is -her!- At least it had better be, or Harley's Little Stabbity is gonna go to town. Just how the crazy little checkerboarded gal manages to escape that mess and get to where she needs to be in order to leave Arkham as a whole is up for debate. With all of the burning and fireballs and explosions and stuff, one little woman with two-toned hair isn't going to be the biggest concern on the menu. Plus, she's been working psychiatric gigs here for months! She's got a few tricks up her own proverbial sleeve. The others? Eh! Not her problem! She's got her crowbar. She's got her J-Man. Life is good. And tonight has been -amazing!- ..Ow. "I'd say let's blow this joint but ya beat me to it, puddin!'" Tonight, Harley finds happiness as she's reunited with her one and only. It's a magical evening that she will remember forever. At least until her legs heal. "Joker, you owe me a nice dinner after all this," Deadpool declares. His stoic mercenaries are scattering like mad- even the Bats they'll fight, but fire's an enemy no one can win against. Deadpool casually thrusts a katana through one escapee who nearly knocks him down, barely breaking stride. "So... hm." He considers his options. "B-lister is probably barely surviving in a duct. If she survived... she went that way. If she's barely alive, then she needs a heroic 11th hour rescue. And what better way to fuel 11th hour rescues than to make a dramatic heroic entrance." Deadpool nods sagely to himself and immediately starts sprinting towards what is apparently Batman and Huntress' position, using all his skills at stealth to hide both his body and his thermal signature between alternating pillars of flame and the sluicing water of the emergency fire response system. The extended Logic there being, of course, that Batman will be there, rescuing Huntress. When the ceiling bursts into fire, one small detail might be missed: the hole torn in Jim Gordon's shirt. His collapse to the ground might have been considered instinct, except that once he's on the floor, his hand grabs at his chest, fingers quickly soaked with blood. The SWAT officer nearby hits the floor as well, and after the flames die down, he looks toward the Commissioner to check if he's alright. Gordon's rifle clatters to the floor, and he brings the other hand up to apply more pressure to his blood-stained hand. "It's okay," he breathes. "Missed my vitals. Go report to the Captain, I can hold out for help." The SWAT officer lingers, prompting Gordon to lean forward and snarl at him. "Consider that an order!" There reaches a point in a crimefighter's career where Batman really shouldn't be /surprised/ anymore by things like a drugged-up Huntress trying to exit the vents from one of the few he gets a chance to seal off, a wince thrown down the line at the rest of the cells he'll never get to even as the grenades go off. The Dark Knight all but rips the vent cover back off the wall and hurls it to the floor, helpfully (if roughly) dragging the other vigilante out of the duct and all but tossing her floorward-- of course, in a sweep of his cape Batman follows her down. The Caped Crusader provides as much cover as possible as that inferno roars, as men and women scream in agony where the explosion still reaches, as gouts of superheated gas erupt outwards in a plume of fire that flows like liquid outwards around that shielding garment, and the material of the Batsuit itself. This isn't to say that the convection is not exceedingly unpleasant even staring point blank at the floor. There's scarcely a glance spared to Huntress before the Dark Knight rises, brushing smouldering cape back over his shoulders with a flourish, the same motion seemingly producing a trio of black pellets which are hurled straight into the mercenary who's in such a hurry to intercept-- the one who set everyone on fire in the /first/ place. They detonate in a spectral flash of blinding light and brain-jarring, ear-rupturing sound. It's down right magnanimous of him to continue to shield Huntress' approach with half that redirected cape as they go off-- or at least impressively thorough. He won't be there long, however, keen on engaging Deadpool head on-- judging by the way the Bat charges forward in the wake of his flashbombs. Like this is the first time Deadpool's been flashbanged. The Merc with the Mouth, his approach both timely and stealthy, ghosts behind a flipped over hospital bed, then dodges into the smoke a split-second after Batman's flashbang goes off. Deadpool lurches around the corner with smooth timing and fires a single shot from his handgun, seemingly right at Batman. It misses. Both the Merc and the Dark Knight freeze for a moment... and it's Huntress who moves next, blood staining her chest just over her second rib. "So here's the deal, Bats," Deadpool says, his tone conversational despite the spray of water and flame. Small eruptions set off his words, and in a moment of silence, casts them both into an eerie, water-filled silence. "I wasn't a detective. Couldn't make it through the weekend class. Screaming hoarsely I can do, but I could never remember if I was supposed to use detective skills to find things, or just shake the answers out of them." Deadpool almost looks thoughtful, dropping his gear behind him. "I don't do this very often," he admits. "You know. 'Who's the best', that kind of thing. But man, it's not every day I get a chance to fight The Batman. Y'know. Mano y mano. Just to see who can throw it down the hardest." He leaves his katanas in his hands, clad in his ripped red costume, his belt buckle forlorn withouth ammunition pouches and the firearms he sets aside. "They say you're an honorable man. She'll live- probably- if you can beat me fast enough to get her a medevac. I think I broke her collarbone, so I don't think she'll be in the fight. Whattya say, Bats? You wanna have a little game of Who's Got the Biggest Penis?" Wade steps back into a classic 'spider' posture, one katana held reverse and high, the other forward and wide. "Let's see how good you really are without your bag of tricks." Huntress is trying to clumsily get the vent to open when it is suddenly just GONE and someone YANKS her down out of the vents and roughly to the floor and then drops something heavy on top of her. She's too disoriented from the gas to really react beyond gasping in surprise at the explosion that seems to come from nowhere. And just as suddenly the weight holding her to the floor is gone heralded by a second explosion close enough by to add to the ringing already in her ears. She sits up still a bit dazed... just in time to have what feels like a chunk of molten lava hit her in the chest. She crumples like a marionette with its strings cut but at least she didn't have far to fall, since she was already on the floor. God that hurt... who the HELL is yammering past the change-ringing bells playing at full volume? If they don't shut up, molten lava or no she's gonna put a bolt through their eye. The Dark Knight takes a small, dual-chambered vial from his utility belt, where he feinted to the side as Deadpool takes his shot. He doesn't spare more attention than it takes to confirm Huntress' condition, at first, as he turns the object over in his hand. It's about that point that the Merc with the Mouth makes his offer, and actually gets a smirk out of the Bat; if cold and cynical. "There are two things you're forgetting." The Bat drops back into a ready stance of his own, adaptive and difficult to ascribe to one style; facing those dual ko-katana, however? He clearly favors the armored swordbreakers on his gauntlets. He paces back at first, letting Deadpool's superior reach buy him initiative; and the Batman time. "One, you're working for the Joker. This only ends one way for you." The Dark Knight pauses his weaving and ready stance to illustrate a second point in his rebuttal with two digits, "Two, I'm really not concerned -how- small your penis feels." This is announced while still fists clenched, ready for the mano e mano showdown. The two fingers again, attention is drawn to the displaying, empty hand motion that helps Wade with his numbers. Like a sucker punch launched from sleight of hand, the Dark Knight snaps his other fist forward with acceleration that defies even vision-- much less reason, in martial artists less honed than they. Still, Batman expects Deadpool will have a cunning retort just waiting (probably leading into assault on the fourth wall); this is cut a bit short by that hurled vial with its volatile chemicals. Slowly mixed and turned over in his palm, its fuse run down to almost literally nothing, the charge is released straight for Deadpool's center of mass. A high explosive charge erupts in a tremendous shockwave instants from impact, scarce milliseconds from its release. It may be timed to the hair's breadth, the bulk of the eruption directed towards the Merc with the Mouth, but the Dark Knight still has to fall back and shield himself from the shockwave, cape ripping in several places from the sheer force of the detonation. One would hope he's aware of Deadpool's remarkable ability to survive just about anything ever. "I was lying about the total number of outstanding points." Batman drily confides. It's one way to accelerate Huntress' access to care. Deadpool goes flying backwards, twisting and vanishing in a blast of fire and smoke. There's a hairsbreadth of tension from his position, and abruptly a flurry of razor-edge knives- Batman would recognize their Eastern disposition- flicker at him with similar speed, the sort of precision and accuracy that only a master assassin would be able to generate. Avoiding the water- and the ground- Deadpool kicks and flies out of the smoke, one hand trailing a ceiling pipe, the other two managing his katanas as he wall runs back at Batman, aimed to land where he predicted Batman's dodging would lead him. With a roar of glee, Deadpool lashes out with both katanas in a pair of crosshatch swipes, his speed and precision shocking. Huntress hasn't moved since she fell, trying with all her might to not let the nearly all-encompassing pain in her right shoulder win out. If it does, she just knows it, she'll die here. Doesn't help that there's yet another explosion way too close by. As horrid as it feels to breathe much less move, she starts trying to find her crossbow, her left hand moving to check the holster on her right hip. Several knives are actually deflected aside, several more imbed themselves in the armored sections of the batsuit; one of these draws blood rather painfully. The Dark Knight had been banking on the explosion taking Deadpool down long enough to get them clear, and his quick recovery puts Batman on the defensive. He intercepts one katana swipe, sparks flying as the blades on his own gauntlet wrestle for control. Heaving the blades aside, the Bat weaves to one side, alert eyes analyzing Deadpool's motions. The next stroke slices in close before it's caught, edge biting flesh shallowly as the Caped Crusader seeks to firmly pin that bladearm, and slam his armored cowl forward into Wade's face-- twice. The effort is punctuated by stepping in on Deadpool mid-assault, launching an overpowering, lunging backhand. Careful to avoid allowing Deadpool leverage on those blades while he's on the offensive, for an instant the Bat is everything the Merc might not anticipate-- relying on physicality and strength, raw chaos and unpredictable force, to carry him through in answer to the precision style. Then, an instant later, it's two piston-precision kicks seeking to literally break Deadpool's shins out from under him, as the Batman finally drops into some recognizable kung-fu, distracting the effort with syncopated feinting strikes high. (Unfortunately, the rest of this log is missing.) Category:Logs Category:Events